Poulet Roti or Aaaaah.

Peonies in Paris

It occurred to me, yesterday morning as I made a grocery list, that I could eat roast chicken every night for supper.  More still, I could cook it every night.  There is something inordinately comforting about roast chicken.  And preparing it for my family is beyond satisfying and astonishingly simple.  It is ‘provider-y’ in the way that bringing lunch on a tray to a small sick (not too sick) child is. You may be right if you’re thinking that my thoughts on roast chicken verge on science of the obvious.  It’s all still true.  When I make roast chicken I know everyone will sit down to a meal that is delicious and, by its very nature, requires they spend time cutting and spearing, swirling gravy, chasing potatoes or rice around the plate.  There are so few things that can stop us in our day; a perfect bunch of peonies, a really well-curated bookshelf, a great pair of sunglasses, stinky cheese, the sea.  Fine, more than a few things (and I’ve included photographic examples).  Still, we mostly rush headlong and heedless and we don’t have time for roast chicken.  Nonsense.

Bookshelves in London

Of course, I don’t make roast chicken every day.  Last night, for example, I assembled home made potstickers.  They were tasty and pretty, arranged in shallow bowls with Napa cabbage shreds and thinly sliced scallions, a scattering of red chillies.  There was a lovely hit of heat from the chillies and a sweet/salty wave in the mirin and soy.  It was entertaining and vaguely crafty to separate each won ton wrapper and carefully fill it with a mixture of ground pork and pepper, ginger, brown sugar and, oddly, yellow mustard.  But, it just wasn’t roast chicken.

Stinky Cheese

My parents often took us to restaurants when my sister and I were growing up in Manhattan.  We were exceedingly well-behaved and I always asked for roast chicken.  Since we went most often to a little French place in the sixties (streets and years) this was not a problem.  My sister was far more adventurous, she still is.  In that time I remember her ordering venison and rabbit, sole meuniere  and boeuf bourgingon.  The waiters, all of whom sounded distinctly like Pepe le Pew, oohed and ahed over my sister’s sophisticated pallet.  I never considered a taste.  I can still see my plate, the simple half chicken placed beside creamy mashed potatoes and thin green beans.  In the glow of the restaurant lights, and no doubt, my burnished memories, the gravy took on a subtle sheen, a rich brown luster as it pooled artfully.

Those great sunglasses

So, today’s list includes leeks and carrots, celery and tiny fingerling potatoes, chicken stock from my freezer and herbs.  I will pour a glass of wine and chop the vegetables up, toss them with olive oil, salt and pepper.  I will loosen the chicken skin and press softened butter and thyme under it.  Then, I will put it in the oven and forget about it for an hour or so.  In that time, the evening will have closed in and the lights in our little house will be golden and flattering.  My hair will be twisted up, poked thorough with a pencil anchor and my white apron will be stained with butter and stock, a green smear of parsley, a powdery clump of flour.  Emma will be upstairs slung into a diabetic coma by JB’s newest hit, David will arrive, pulling the cold air in with him.  Eventually someone will say, “Is that roast chicken?”  The scent will have reached our bedroom in the eaves and I’ll have to turn on the giant exhaust fan in the roof.  There is nothing worse than waking up to the smell of last night’s dinner, even if it was roast chicken.

The Sea

Years ago, before Emma was born and the boys were still tiny, I took a night cooking course in London.  Oh, just hold the jokes about English food.  We’ve gone way past that.  Consider Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsey, Delia Smith (who? trust me, Google her).  There was some serious technique work: knife skills, pastry-making, stock-making, sauces, gelees (ack!), boning skills, bleh, blah, yum.  It’s where I got my long apron, and started keeping a pen clipped to it in case I remembered something important like my name or the words to the “Love, American Style” theme song.   The best part was that we had little helpers who scurried around whisking away the dirty pots and pans as we worked.  Heaven!  I do have David now, and he is a master at clean up.

After all the feather light tart crusts, tender veal scallops, fillets, veloutes, pots de creme and unctuous sauces, it was truly the roast chicken that captured my heart, and, as it turned out, everyone else’s.  The group was a solemn one, mostly people who planned on being actual chefs. There was one other housewife who was so stiff and proper (and thin) that she refused to taste anyone’s dish but her own.  At any rate, there had been weeks of cleaver-wielding as we learned to butcher, ice water baths for perfect asparagus, thick roux and pate brisees, clarified butter and profiteroles.  Then, le poulet.  And, as we watched the instructor swiftly, elegantly clip the chicken apart with her poultry shears, there was a collective sigh.  I saw Mrs. Blatherington-Smythe (not her real name) dart a hand out to sample a gleaming bit of crunchy skin.  A cold bottle of white wine appeared from the walk in and every one sat around the tall counters eating with their fingers.

Join me?

It would appear that a proper roast chicken can reduce just about anyone (except Gwyneth Paltrow or Paul McCartney) to a cozy puddle.  The act of feeding another person is a privilege and when you feed them roast chicken, it is a gift.  When I cook tonight I will be reminded of that, of how, really, all the things that make us feel ‘just right’–that wonderful combination of capability, accomplishment and tranquility–are beyond satisfying and astonishingly simple.